


you are the sun gone down

by lilabut



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: AU after 6x08, Angst, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 10:59:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5866786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilabut/pseuds/lilabut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fall of Alexandria, the group is forced back onto the road. This time, winter is defeating them, and in only five days, Daryl feels the world shifting.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Or: their last winter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are the sun gone down

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Nine Lives Pic-spiration challenge.

**you are the sun gone down**

 

 

I remember arms reached out too late.  
Because tomorrow and today  
Are only here so long.  
When there's nothing left to say,  
I hear that life moves on.

 

_you are goodbye_ , holly conlan

 

**.day two hundred and fifty eight**

 

When the time comes, he is all alone. It seems right, in a way. Spares him those dreaded goodbyes, the despair in all of their eyes, emotions he has seen too many times to count or care. It spares him a great deal of things.

 

He wonders, briefly, if they will go looking for him when he doesn't return. Send out search parties. Risk their own lives. Perhaps they might even find him, perhaps he would rot away to nothing here under the shade of the large tree that shields him from the sun.

 

( _i'm better on my own. nobody can make it alone now... better on my own... on my own._ )

 

 

The gun is heavy in the palm of his hand, heavier than expected.

 

Blood continues to soak into his shirt, seeping from the wound at his shoulder at an alarming rate. Already he can feel his limbs turning into lead, almost like somebody else's arms had been attached to his shoulders. He grips the gun tightly, index finger lingering on the trigger.

 

The taste of blood on his lips. His body fighting the loss of it. Fighting against the _thing_ that threatens to take over, that sets his veins on fire. Sweat is beginning to pearl on his forehead, even though he can no longer feel the heat of the sun.

 

He does not believe in Heaven, or Hell. Neither does he expect anybody to wait for him on the other side, he never really has. It was all wishful thinking to him, a waste of time, but right now, allowing his head to fall back against the bark of the tree, inhaling the scent of the woods that is so familiar, Daryl almost wishes that he did believe.

 

(his mother would greet him with one of her rare gentle smiles, tuck his hair behind his ears, hum a long forgotten lullaby. merle would grin, slap him on the shoulder, ruffle his hair like he used to when they were young. she would be there, her little girl in her arms, smiling with just a tinge of sadness because _i don't want you to die_. perhaps he'd kiss her, finally. hold her. perhaps he'd just smile back. it doesn't matter, because all that is waiting on the other side of things... is nothing. _i was nothing. Nobody._ it is all he ever will be.)

 

 

He should be more angry, he muses, looking up at the speckles of blue sky that peak through the canopy of leafs. There has been very little to live for lately, that much is true. Still, he does not want to die. Not like this. Never, neither before nor after, has opting out ever been a solution to him. But perhaps, in the end, this is better.

 

( _if this is it, then that's okay_. the words still bring tears to his eyes, but he blinks them away. he does not want to cry, not now. _you tried_.)

 

 

Raising the gun to his mouth is harder than he imagined, almost as though his body is revolting against the purpose of the simple movement.

 

 

When the time comes, he does not mind being all alone.

 

**.day four**

 

The air is still, nothing moving. Life has been drained from the world, snow blanketing the ground outside, as far as he can see. The sky is pitch black, stars gleaming down from above, the moon round and full, illuminating the carnage of the storm in a cold, blue light.

 

Daryl can barely feel the cold that is clawing its way beneath the layers of his clothes, underneath his skin, down to the very marrow in his bones. Arms crossed in front of his chest, he watches the mist that escapes his numb lips.

 

He has not strayed from her side since last night for a second longer than necessary, eyes flickering between her and the slowly dying storm outside. Now that the world has come to a halt, he sees his chance. There will be no other opportunity to leave and try to save her. But it is also too late, he knows.

 

The fever is blazing its way through her system, her body shaking and convulsing in his arms, sweat and blood and the stench of death clinging to the air inside the cottage. Her organs are shutting down, that much he understands, that much he can see. The infection spreading, slowly sucking the life from her. He wants to be there when the time comes, but just for this brief moment, he needs time to breathe. To think. To prepare.

 

Behind him, the door is pushed open against the piles of snow. Daryl does not turn, already having an inkling who would follow him out here.

 

Rick comes to a stop by his side, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket, and Daryl can see him staring into the distance before speaking. _Her breathing calmed down_. He can still hear it, aggravated, strained, hoarse, gulping cold air into unwilling lungs.

 

_Even if I got lucky 'n found a place, I'd never be back 'til tomorrow_ , Daryl explains, needing to break the silence, pointing into the distant darkness. Even more so, he hopes to delay whatever Rick has really come out here to say. _She ain't gonna make it through the night._ The words are dry on his tongue, tasting of rotten flesh and unspoken truths he will never get to share. Rick makes no move to face him, and Daryl is grateful for that. Tears would freeze in the bitter cold, but he knows his eyes are still proof of their existence, red and puffy, marked by lack of sleep and the pressure of everything he tries so desperately to hide.

 

_She's sufferin'_ , he mutters, knowing he will never shake off the memories of her like this. Shaking, unconscious, pale and sweaty. _I did that._

 

She had tried to stop him, had pleaded with him not to do it. Lingering on those thoughts, Daryl can no longer find inside of him what ultimately led him to go through with it. Back then, he had fooled himself into thinking it was right. Now, it seems all wrong, the last thing he should have done.

 

_You tried to save her life_ , Rick counters, still not daring to look at him. But then he lifts his hand, rests it on Daryl's shoulder. _You did right by her._

 

The truth dawns on Daryl then, in all its ugly glory. _Didn't do it for her. Did it for me._

 

( _you have to let yourself feel it_. damn her. he feels too much now, feels numb from it all, all the pain, the grief, everything he fights and fights to suppress. _i can't let myself_. he can't not feel it, not anymore.) _Losin' 'er..._ He hardly recognizes his voice, has no clue why he is talking at all. This is his pain to foster in his heart until it consumes him. His alone. _I can't..._

 

_You gave her a chance._

 

(his brother's blood on his hands. _he gave us a chance_. andrea with tears in her eyes. _i tried... you tried. you tried._ he failed.)

 

_Some chance_ , he scoffs, but he does not move, stands his ground. There is still time left to figure it all out. What it means. To be alone again.

 

**.day three**

 

Carefully, Daryl lifts Carol's head, just enough to readjust the makeshift cushion, fingers gently cradling her skull. His hands work meticulously and tenderly as he tugs her scarf more securely around her neck. The fire is just barely enough to keep them all from freezing, and so he slowly works the glove down her fingers, immediately wrapping his hand around hers, squeezing, kneading and massaging her skin, feeling the cold digits slowly warming up.

 

His thumbs circle against the palm of her hand when he notices Maggie halting all her movements. The stained bandage she had been peeling off Carol's wound is still bunched in her hand, her eyes glassy, staring down at the carnage.

 

Daryl understands before he has to look. Gently putting down Carol's hand, he crawls down towards Maggie, no room left on the floor between bedrolls, sleeping bags and loaded backpacks. Maggie shivers, and he knows it is not from the cold when his eyes finally dare to look down.

 

 

Outside, the snow keeps falling in a rage of white, and it takes all his willpower not to burst out there, screw the cold and the wind.

 

But Carol is awake in his arms, just barely. She is quiet, quivering, fingers digging into his thigh where she is propped up against his chest for warmth. The pain is too much for her to endure, and so she does not speak, simply turns her head every now and then, forehead pressing against the side of his throat.

 

Minutes trickle by, his fingers running soothing circles against the back of her hand, her throat, everywhere he can reach. The words linger on his tongue, but he can not find the courage in him to speak them out loud, to seal her fate.

 

_Daryl..._ He almost misses the quiet murmur, but he can feel the vibrations against his throat, turning his head to give him enough range to look down at her. Her eyes are hooded, barely open, and all the color seems to have been drained from her face. She looks unfamiliar, a stranger if not for the familiar features that will not be changed.

 

_Hmm?_

 

It takes her a while to gather the strength to speak again, taking labored breaths that escape her almost instantly in a hoarse sigh. Eventually, she manages to speak, the words husky, barely audible despite the silence in the room. _Don't want to be a burden again._

 

( _you're his henchman. and I'm a burden. you deserve better._ things have changed so drastically since that night the farm fell in a blaze of fire, blood and rage. they both deserve better, so much better, and the irony of her words is not lost on him.)

 

_Stop_ , he spits angrily, but she does not allow him to go on, to piece together a hollow explanation of why she is wrong.

 

She shakes her head, and for a brief moment while she speaks, he recognizes the woman from the quarry beneath the harsh exterior she has formed since then. _I can't._

 

He wants to tell her that she won't be. That they'll find crutches, find a new place to stay, to make home, just as they have done before. He wants to bring up Hershel to prove his point, wants to say he'll carry her. But no matter what thought spins through his mind, he knows they are all dishonest. There is no point in trying to calm her worries about a future that will never be hers.

 

_Wound's infected_ , he states plainly after a minute, and what he does not say, what the simple fact implies, lingers between them ( _you won't live long enough to be a burden._ ). When the corners of her mouth lift into a weak shadow of a smile, Daryl feels his insides wrenching. Memories of her smiles are what drives him, what makes him believe that there is still hope in this world. Now, she taints those memories, drenches them in blood. _Soon as the storm let's up I'll go for a run._

 

Her smile does not waver, and she shakes her head ever so slightly, merely a featherlight brush against his shoulder. _No._

 

_Carol-_ She squeezes his hand with all the strength she has, and it still is only a fluttering pressure around his wrist. It is, however, enough to silence him.

 

_I don't want to die_ , she whispers, making no effort to hide the traces of fear in her voice. _But if this is it, then that's okay._ Everything falls into place then. He bites back every urge to try and convince her. Against everything, he accepts. Because he knows the look on her face, the determination.

 

(faintly, he remembers andrea, a private conversation overheard in the middle of a cursed highway, the georgia heat burning them away. _you're doing it for you. i chose to stay. who the hell are you to tell me otherwise? i wanted to die my way. that was my choice. you took that away from me. you took my choice away. i am sure as hell not your problem._ the words echo in his memory, branded there forever, never fading, just like words he had spoken only a few days later, words he regrets now more than ever. _you ain't my problem!_ )  
  


_'m sorry_ , he whispers, praying that she can hear him over the tears that finally break free from his eyes. She keeps smiling through it all, turns her head enough to press her cold lips against the side of his throat.

 

_You tried_ , she hums against his skin, her breath damp, a weak arm lifting until her palm is cupping his cheek.

 

 

It must have drained her, almost every last ounce of energy her body still has, because she grows quiet in his arms a few minutes later, arm sliding down his chest until he catches it in a tender grasp. Evenly, she breathes by his side, his thumb lingering on her pulse point. Waiting.

 

 

The fever sets in a few hours later, her skin cold, clammy and shivering under his touch, the world outside falling into the darkness of night. Her pulse sets a raging rhythm that his heart adapts to, unwilling to let her suffer alone.

 

**.day two**

 

Every bone and muscle in Daryl's body aches, screams in agony, but despite it all he has not moved an inch all night. Wrapped tightly around Carol, shielding her from the cold, is where he needs to be. The sun has long risen, he assumes. Outside, the wind howls, snow bursting from the sky, the world one white nightmare.

 

His hand is entwined with hers against the ground, the other cushioning her head, and just a few inches away, and innocent looking blade still lays where they abandoned it the night before. Last night, it had almost gleamed in the dark, and the stench of burned flesh in still pungent in the air even now.

 

So much blood. Flowing, soaking into every layer of fabric, warm and sticky on his hands. A chilling hiss. A scream so sharp that not even the cloth between her teeth could quite muffle it.

 

And then it had stopped.

 

 

_Daryl_ , somebody says quietly, and he turns his head just enough to see Maggie kneeling down beside him. Carol's body keeps moving evenly against his front, each breath she takes a comfort that nothing else could measure up with. _You should eat something_. There is a bowl in her gloved hands, but he simply shakes his head, ignoring the sad acceptance in Maggie's eyes when she turns away in defeat.

 

All night, he has done nothing but listen to the sound of Carol's breathing, chart her heartbeat and her pulse in his head, keep track of every flinch, of every movement. He can not be distracted, not even now.

 

The cottage rattles in the storm, old wood moaning under the pressure, filling the heavy silence that has fallen upon all of them. Nobody knows what to say anymore. There is nothing to say.

 

(she screams into the night, a burning barn the horrendous backdrop to her fear – but he is there, just in time, and her hands wrap around his middle as the bike roars beneath them. she has disappeared, nothing but blood, a scarf, a cross, a few pebbles and a white rose to prove she ever even existed – but he finds her, just in time, lifts her into his arms, carries her to safety. she has disappeared, taken from him, left to fend for herself, and he longs to find her – but he is not there, never finds hers; she finds him, and then she is right there in his arms. the sound of a crashing car. moans and snarls as he drags a walker away from her. she flies through the air, is carried away – he finds her again. returning to the ruins of alexandria – she is there, bruised, battered and furious. now, she is just quiet.)

 

 

Hours pass until she stirs in his arms, gasping as consciousness brings an onslaught of pain. But he is there, holds her against him. Fingers sift through her hair, eyes bursting with tears when she manages, just briefly, to look at him. Her fingers grasp his brutally, but he barely feels any pain. To her see her like this, struggling to even breathe, fills him with a different kind of pain, one that is located so deeply that no other ailment has the slightest chance to even break to the surface of his conscious mind.

 

 

In the end, he is glad when she passes out from the pain not a minute later. It feels like a hundred lifetimes.

 

**.day one**

 

The ground is frozen entirely, every step a slow and dangerous tasks, even with the heavy, well-worn boots strapped to their feet. The bare trees glisten with a dusting of ice, slippery, damp and useless. Once upon a lifetime, it might have been a beautiful sight. Haunting, but undoubtedly pristine and pure. A barren forest, lined with crystal, reflecting the last light of the dying day.

 

Their breaths leave their mouths as thick, heavy clouds that dampen their faces, exposing them even further to the biting cold, and with an occasional exhausted sigh. It has been mostly a fruitless mission, and the frustration, mixed with the ever-present hunger, the freezing cold that has penetrated even their bones at this point, and the fatigue they can not longer shake off, is scratching away every last layer of strength and endurance they have. If their luck does not change soon, this winter might be their last.

 

Daryl notices Carol kneading her gloved hands from the corner of his eyes, and it only reminds him of the numbness in his own fingers. Balling them into a tight fist, he grinds his teeth at the biting pain that shoots through him, from the tip of his thumb all the way up towards where the crossbow's strap is digging into his shoulder. For the last twenty minutes, neither of them have uttered a single word. These days, there is not much to discuss anymore.

 

Faintly, he remembers their first winter on the road, the loss of the farm still weighing them down, inexperience and incapability rendering them slow and inefficient. They had to grow with the task back then, and they pulled through.

 

Now, when they should know better and be more prepared for survival on the road, it finally seems like the world is beating them. Long forgotten words suddenly infiltrate his mind, and as they echo through his memory, dim and obscured because he can not recall the sound of the voice that spoke them, he takes in Carol's features. The angry red tint of her nose and cheeks, the fading determination in her eyes, the hunch of her shoulders. _This is our extinction event._

 

(the quarry abandoned. the farm overrun. the prison burned away. the false promise of terminus. alexandria fallen. Perhaps, there really is no place left in the world, no sanctuary. one day, they'd all be gone, and the age of mankind would be over.)

 

Thoughts like these, dark and heavy as lead, come to him more and more these days. They would only do harm, he knows. All of them are weighed down enough by the struggles of surviving, to find food and shelter, to get at least an hour of sleep, to feel warm even for merely a brief minute by the fire. To dwell on the inevitability of what is ahead of them serves them no good.

 

Angrily, he shakes off the thoughts, but in the back of his mind Jenner's words will not stop haunting him. _There is no hope._

 

In the distance, the lonely cottage comes into view between the trees. It is small, too small for them, but it is also the only place they could find. To now return empty handed to their already meager shelter is just another failure to add to their list.

 

He and Carol left hours ago. There was never much hope to find food – they would have to make due with the few cans of beans they still have left for now – but everybody's eyes gleamed with the tentative promise of dry wood to dare a larger fire in the cottage's rather excessive fireplace. Hoping that the others had been more successful, Daryl sighs, looking up towards the sky.

 

He had offered to go on a run, a proper run for the first time in weeks, somewhere further away to find food. But the others had refused, urging him to stay. The air is thick, the sky looming with tension that is about to be released. A storm is brewing, and as much as Daryl needs to _leave_ , to get away and _do_ something, even he knows that, should he leave them now, he most likely would never return.

 

If this storm lasts longer than a few days, they will die here. _There is no-_

 

 

Carol vanishes from his peripheral vision, screaming, before he even has time to blink.

 

It is all a blur, just like it always is. But it feels different now. This is Carol. Usually, his heart would beat aggressively, a feeling Daryl almost relishes these days – the rush of adrenaline, feeling alive. Now, his heart seems to have ceased beating all together.

 

Carol groans as she kicks at the walker that has its rotting hands wrapped around her legs, pulling her down the icy slide of a frozen creek. Hands slipping against the frozen ground, there is nothing for her to hold on to, fumbling but failing to reach her gun, her knife, anything. With all her strength, she kicks but it is never quite enough as she slips further and further down. Away from him.

 

Daryl has his crossbow ready and aimed in a heartbeat, a movement that is as much a part of him as breathing by now, his muscles memorizing each move. But as he hurries to get to her, his boots slide across the ice that layers the ground. Just barely, he can keep himself from losing his balance and falling, too. In horror, he stares at the scene ahead, as Carol manages to free her knife from her belt, numb fingers curling. She can not reach the walker, he can tell, but as he holds up the crossbow, he knows he can not release the bolt, either.

 

_Hold still_ , he shouts, desperately trying to get aim. It's futile, and so he drops the heavy weapon onto the ground, grabs his knife instead, and falls deftly onto his knees by the side of the steep slide. The pain that shoots through his legs is pushed to the very last corner of his mind, and he reaches down, his free hands grabbing Carol's arm.

 

There is a moment when he is sure that it is all going to work out. His grip on her arm is strong, and he is pulling her up despite the lack of friction, knees slipping away from beneath him. Carol's foot hits the walker in the throat and it stumbles backwards with a moan. _Come on_ , he urges her, and she begins to pull herself up.

 

It happens so quickly, then. Just as she grabs for his shoulders to pull herself up against him, there is a tug, Carol's body almost slipping away from him. Daryl holds on tighter, groaning, working against it.

 

Then her scream rings in his ears, her fingers digging so deeply into his arms that he knows he will carry the bruises for days. For much longer than he will be able to hold on to her.

 

Mind jumping to figure out what to do, the very blood freezes in his veins. He lets go of Carol against every fiber of his being yearning to do otherwise, watches for a brief second as she slides down into the creek, hands clawing at the frozen earth, before he follows, knife ready, and before his feet even hit the ground he buries the knife in the walker's soft temple.

 

Carol's blood gushes onto the ground, pooling against the frozen current, and his eyes are, for one small moment when he suddenly remembers his own beating heart drumming in his ears, glued to the gaping wound just above her boot.

 

(in his mind, he sees merle, dead eyes and bloody mouth. he sees all of them, everybody they have ever lost, and most of all, he sees carol. carol smiling at him shyly, carol kissing his temple, carol crying in his arms, carol laughing with sparkling eyes, carol holding his hand, carol in his arms. carol. carol. it all boils down to her.)

 

_Carol!_ he grunts, voice rough and almost angry, and when he falls down beside her and cups her face in his cold hands, he understands everything that will happen. Her features are obscured from the pain, and she struggles to meet his gaze as he lightly shakes her. _No._

 

Beneath him, she twists and turns, one of her hands finding his arm, holding on to him when there is nothing else to hold on to. When his eyes find the walker, Daryl suddenly knows what to do. Strapped to the bastard's back is a machete, a heavy bag pack laying on the ground next to him. He must have fallen down the creek, he can see the twisted angle of his foot now, not too long ago, and died from the cold. Reaching over Carol's trembling body, he pulls the machete out of its sheath, the sound quivering in the quietness of dusk.

 

His hands are remarkable steady when he unfastens his belt, roughly pulls it through the loops, and he ignores the sound of his name that escapes Carol's lips as a struggled plea. _Daryl..._

 

Holding down her legs, Daryl ties the belt tightly around her leg, working in a frenzy, fooling himself into thinking that this is right, that this is the only way. _Daryl, don't!_

 

He looks up then, watches in horror as Carol lifts up onto her elbows, her head shaking softly. _Don't._

 

( _i don't want you to die._ her words are still clear in his mind, and he wants to shout at her now, shake her, pour sense into her, because how can she even try to stop him when he feels the same way, when her dying is the one thing he knows he will never make it through? _i don't want you to die, either!_ )

 

_No way,_ he replies instead, pressing his hands into her thigh, feeling her tremble, feeling himself tremble. There is a shiver running through him, and Daryl recognizes it with a start. For the first time in a long while, he is afraid. It is pure fear that drives him now, that forms tears in his eyes, that glues his gaze to Carol. _I ain't losin' ya again._ He wants to shout the words to make her understand. Instead, his whisper is almost lost. _Please._

 

Wonder seems to flash in Carol's eyes, all pain forgotten for the briefest of moments. She takes a deep breath then, blue lips quivering, before her hand finds his. Beneath their gloves, he can barely feel the small squeeze she gives, but the current that shoots through him, combined with her curt nod, are enough. His fingers tighten around the handle of the machete.

 

 

 

Her blood speckles his face when he carries her into the cottage.

 

**.day five**

 

Her heart stops beating beneath the palm of his hand. Propped against his chest, she still feels warm, alive except for the absence of breathing, her hands limp in his. Someone is crying; he thinks it might be Maggie. It might be a stranger. It might be himself.

 

 

Easily, his fingers locate the base of her skull, soft skin and silky hair, and he allows himself to linger there for a brief moment. His lips feather across her temple, forming silent words she can no longer hear, words he has never been brave enough to speak before. Words he will never speak now. He lingers there as well, if only for a handful of heartbeats.

 

In his head, the clock is ticking, angrily, chasing him. He allows himself no time to grief. No. He will not have too much time pass, will not risk her turning. After everything, he owes her that.

 

(sophia. dead eyes, pale skin, rotting away. forever erasing every happy memory carol has ever had of her. merle. face covered in blood and flesh. forever haunting every hollering laughter, every kind smile that daryl has memorized of his brother. carol can not be on this list. he has to remember her his way. blue eyes like the winter sky. a careful smile on thin lips. determination set in the marble of her skin.)

 

 

The knife is light in the palm of his hand, lighter than expected.

 

( _an end to sorrow and grief. regret._ he feels numb now, but surely the sorrow will hit him one day, in a moment of weakness, wash him away until nothing remains. but her sorrow is over – sophia. the girls. everything.

 

grief, he knows, will be his constant companion from now on, a silent brother that follows him wherever this world leads him. but her grief is over.

 

regret. he regrets his every living breath in this moment. but her, she will never regret a single misstep, a single decision. not anymore. it gives him courage.)

 

 

Raising the knife to the base of skull is easier than he imagined, and as he does, he remembers only the words that have not been spoken. That never will be.

 

 

_(i love you. thank you. i need you. i'm yours. i'm not better on my own. i love you.)_

 

 

**.the end**


End file.
